Allegra by Shelley Hrdlitschka Page B

the last piece of my sandwich and collect my things. We hurry out to Mr. Rocchelli’s portable but find the door locked. “Shit,” Spencer says, banging it with his fist.
    That’s the second time I’ve seen Spencer hit something when he’s mad. It doesn’t fit with his usually easygoing temperament.
    â€œI guess he can’t leave all that equipment unsupervised when no one’s there,” I say.
    The school door bangs shut behind us, and we both swing around. Mr. Rocchelli is heading toward the portable, keys in hand.
    â€œSpencer’s already agreed to tutor you?” he asks, sliding the key into the lock.
    â€œYeah, and he doesn’t like to waste any time.”
    â€œI see that.” Mr. Rocchelli pushes the door open and steps aside to let us pass. “In the future, if you sign up to use the room I won’t lock you out. As it was, I didn’t think anyone was going to be here today.”
    â€œWe didn’t know either until five minutes ago,” Spencer says, leading the way into the sound room.
    Mr. Rocchelli smiles at me. “Go to it,” he says.
    I feel my heartbeat quicken. What is the matter with me?
    Spencer is a patient teacher, and by the end of the lunch hour I feel way more confident with the program. He listens to snippets of what I’ve written and appears genuinely impressed. He watches as I tuck away the flash drive. “You look better than you did earlier,” he says.
    â€œBetter?” I tease. “I wasn’t looking well before?”
    â€œNo,” he says seriously. “You were looking…sad.”
    That’s because I was sad. But I’m not going to tell him that. Working with the program was a good distraction, just as dance class was last night. I’ll have to remember this. Keep busy. Keep distracted.
    â€œWell, I’m glad I’m looking better.”
    â€œDo you want to come back here after school?”
    I think about it and glance at the schedule on the wall. No one has the room booked. “What I really need to do now is simply work on the music,” I tell him. “I think I know enough about the equipment to get started.”
    He thinks about that. “I could do homework in the portable,” he says, gesturing to the main room, “and you could work in here. If you have any problems with the program, I could help you.”
    I glance through the window at Mr. Rocchelli, who is working at his desk. I’d feel more relaxed about being here after school if Spencer was here too.
    â€œOkay, thanks.”
    â€œGood. It’s a date.”
    I glance up at his choice of words.
    â€œYou know what I mean,” he says, looking away. I follow him out of the sound room. “We’ll be back after school,” he tells Mr. Rocchelli as he heads across the room.
    â€œYou’ve got a whole year to complete this project,” Mr. Rocchelli reminds me. “It doesn’t have to be done in one semester.”
    â€œHave you forgotten?” I ask him. “I’m working on a masterpiece. That takes time, lots of time.”
    He laughs. “See you after school.”

    My after-school session in the sound room is completely different from the hour I spent there during music-theory class. This time I’m focused, and only twice do I have to ask Spencer for help. I work on the second part of the piece and begin creating an entirely new segment of music, including a new melody that wasn’t part of Mr. Rocchelli’s original song. This section has some darker themes, and the notes come easily to me. I play it on the small keyboard that sits in the corner.
    When I look up, I find Mr. Rocchelli standing in the doorway. “I don’t recognize my song anymore,” he says.
    â€œOh, you will,” I quickly assure him. “I’m just adding to it.”
    He smiles. “It’s wonderful. I like what I just heard.”
    â€œOh, that.